Accounts of My Absurdity
by Trickssi
Summary: [Chapter 4 up!] Ever wonder who the Silly Girls really are? The brunette Georgette doles out a history of events leading up to and including Gaston's death and attempts to cope. [Inspired by the character work of an Award winning high school production!]
1. Appassionata

**Working Title: **Accounts of My Absurdity

**Rating**: T for language and themes

**Summary**: The history of the brunette Silly Girl, Georgette de Valois, as she attempts to sort out her mourning over Gaston's death.

**Other**: This is the love child of character work for PHS's production of _Beauty and the_ _Beast_. Our show, which goes up in a week, has the Silly Girls as being a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. This is not a movie speculation; it is simply a more profound retelling of the movie-based theatrical event. Also, I'd like to give a shout out to my fellow cast members who bothered to read this or input character work. This is dedicated to you!

* * *

Je suis Georgette de Valois. I am nineteen and a half years old, but for my years I have seen more than most of the people in my town. In an effort to clear my mind of the current goings-on, I decided to begin a personal history. Perhaps then I can forget him.

I am the daughter of a successful draper from a town whose name I have thankfully blocked out of my memory. My father is dead now. I have a mother and three brothers left; I suppose you could call me the sister of the draper, and luckily not the draper herself. Only by escaping the family business have I come this far. I owe this to my favorite uncle alone.

Uncle Nicolas was my mother Giselle's oldest brother. After years of a fruitless attempt to convert Nicki to such a trade as fabric, my grandparents wizened up and used their wealth to send him to a school in Paris. He was smart, but too smart. He became bored, bought a violin, and forgot their dream of his being a lawyer as he spent more money on lessons. My grandfather, outraged that he would not live on as aristocracy, took the violin and smashed it over his knee as Nic watched helplessly. That did not, of course, hinder my spirited uncle, who the very next Tuesday sold his watch to buy another of his instruments. Time flew by as he became addicted to his own sensuous sound; I think he played until the skin on his fingers burst open and bloodied the strings once. At least he was able to keep himself financially afloat with small group concerts. Eventually he was allowed to board at home again, but only on the condition that he make use of his studies somehow and forget his damned music.

Shortly before he made any progress on obtaining that useful job, Nicolas met, or rather, became better acquainted with, what was soon to be the family's downfall. Actor, troublemaker, roguish young lad—but he was the son of the Marquis. They drank and danced to the music of the violin, the devil's vice. They became lovers, ran away to Paris, and Nic finally got a job in the pit of a theatre-orchestra. This theatre owned him. It might as well have, I suppose. My grandparents refused to acknowledge his existence since he was with a man, said it was unrespectable that he not be around women, and that he not marry.

Naturally they were enthused to find his lover left him. Nic, however, went mad with grief and made it his business to own the theatre. When this happened, he finally was able to send money to the L'enfent residence. They had mistakenly thought he was married and was a lawyer now, or something noble, maybe a _philosophe_, anything other than the theatre. But he wasn't. And when the money stopped, they forgot about him, buried him in some menial conversation their own way. My mother's lies about his lover killing him are to this day preposterous and I refuse to believe them. I believe Nicolas ran away again, perhaps to the New World, to escape my family. I think his lover found him again and now they dance always to a happier music away from France.

Despite my mother's grudge, I have gradually come to learn that she used to dance to my uncle Nic's violin. She was young when he left for Paris for good, but very attached to her brother. I stress her youth at that time. My grandparents needed a cover for the truth about him, for what youngling could comprehend a love story so unique. The ruse was that the Devil had seized Nicolas and he was never to come home or to be seen again; that he had died and gone to Hell because he played a vile instrument and drank. Naturally Mother believed, and carried this aversion to sin throughout her life, refusing to dance forever. Her family believed, too, once they said it enough. Blame it on the Devil. Blame everything on him, and Nic will be all right.

I take pride in that my middle name is Nicolette.

Now, my mother, just before she submitted herself to a convent, she fell in love with Augustin de Laroque, the brother of Nicolas's lover and the second eldest son of the Marquis. They were married promptly, as if to compensate for the incident with Nicki, and so quickly that neither could abort the deal.

First Etienne was born, then Francois, then I. I was named after Georges, my mother's father. He had passed away days before my birth, with only Giselle caring for him (Jean and Michel had fled, like Nicolas, leaving their only sister). This was when my father took over the draping business, for his solace as well as his wife's. Then Mother bore Pierre and Claude, happy twins from content parents. Pierre died his second fall from a terrible cough.

Being a middle child I had days to myself when I would often run to the nearest performance outlet and dance to the melodies of the strange and beautiful instruments. All of the players were exotic and exciting to me. I went every Sunday after church. Until Etienne snitched, that is. That was when my parents became fiercely protective of their only daughter. Oh no, my mother said of my obsession with music, if I was to dance I was to be properly trained. I didn't understand why. From secret funds sent by Nicolas years prior, I was hurried to one of the most renowned ballet clinics available.

I was eight—a tender age before the dawn of true knowledge, but too far after the period of white ignorance. Too old to begin classical dance, I learned. As twenty was too old an age for Nicki to become a virtuoso, eight was past the peak of _ballerina_ success.

I shall never forget the critical carping of my toad-faced instructor, Mademoiselle Yvette. "What feet have we here?" she barked on the first day. During warm-ups no one was permitted to wear shoes, and so Mlle. Yvette stole her first glance at my gnarled country toes, which had calluses already from walking so much. She misinterpreted this as previous experience. "Practiced, are we? We shall see," she said, "for no matter the caliber of your training this class is bound to break you—_my_ way. You will be trained so hard that you will forget anything else you know. If you want to be _ballerina_, you will take any and all advice I give you. Understood?" I nodded.

My hard-hearted teacher soon found out that I had no experience whatsoever and that the hopes of my mother were dashed by my bad knees. On that first day I was delighted to learn that turning-out of the feet was the staple of the art of dance. My feet naturally turned out; to no extreme, but gently enough that making them one parallel line across the arches was not difficult. I bent for a _plie_, but instead of my legs forming a pretty diamond, the space was more of a slit. Mlle. Yvette stopped our pianist immediately to make her rant at me resonant and chilling. I pleaded that my knees simply did not go that way, that legs look strange to me any other way. Then that monstrous creature grabbed either knee and forced them so far outward that I saw them face both walls around me. Had I not clutched the _barre_ I would have fallen backward for the pain.

"That is turn-out," she spat, and then told me not to yelp as I did or she would have me whipped and sent home in an instant. The very next day she used the switch on me for arriving late to class, though nobody had bothered to ask me why. It was because my ankles ached so badly from the over-turn and I could hardly walk, much less dance, in that condition.

For five years Mlle. Yvette proceeded to make me the laughing stock of the academy. Five years scrolled by with that horrid troupe, and somehow I managed to be punished every day for a slip or missed step. My feet bled, the callused edges of my big toes ripped and became more callused. I went through tortures of weak ankles and poor knees: overlooked details which led to my inability to take lessons _en pointe_. I did seem to have all the injuries of _pointe_ girls, however. But _pointe_ was for the good girls, the ones with lean, swanlike grace, white faces, small, sculpted breasts. Every girl but me at my age. I still hadn't hit puberty save for my lanky limbs. Mlle. Yvette took no remorse in letting everyone know that I was never to be more than a child-dancer. I would never be a _ballerina_ because of my suffering joints and lack of poise. I was a failure who had wasted her time and my parents' money. I was to be a maid for the place instead if I wanted to ever be of use.

In tears, I packed my scant belongings from a room shared with the fifteen-year-old Marie de la Croix (who had risen to quite a status among the performers. After I moved out, she was the only one to have a room to herself aside from the _prima_.). I traveled to the basement quarters of the theatre establishment—the dank maids' quarters. I was shameful, but the acts I saw there were tenfold so. When I slept, or tried to, rats scurried, people upstairs stomped on the ground, and the young roommates I kept loudly coupled with foreign men on the other side of the room. One girl always stole liquor, and then the drunken stupor of draught-induced rambling began. This does not compare to the everyday drudgery of cleaning—that I could do alone, save for the filth and plague of rodents to keep me company. Cleaning was my separate miracle.

I had written my mother, and when an envelope with the noble Laroque crest upon it arrived, I was never happier. I expected advice for my situation. I had forgotten the bridge that burned between us.

Apparently, during the time she never bothered to write back to me, my father had been killed by some foul Englishman in a bar over a petty money dispute. This I never believed, for the record. Why would my father venture into a bar, and then quarrel with a knife-toting fool? He had seemed so content, if demanding. I pondered the true murderer, the true story. But as for the letter, it also explicated that my grandfather de Laroque (L'enfent was dead and gone) had left for New Orleans in the New World, for now all of his sons were dead or lost. The draper now was my brother Etienne, and for as quick-brained as he was, he struggled for a single franc. Times were hard, my mother wrote. And so they could not afford to have me home with them. Almost as if she had forgotten my failed ballet training, Mother continued to say that the last of our saved money was sent to a new teacher in a distant place, Castille Beaubien, where I was sure to become the _prima ballerina_.

I had to. I had no choice now.

I thought about stealing some money from the academy to spite Mlle. Yvette. This would never do, though. She guarded all of her pretty, expensive things in a place where none of us found them. That turned out to be only the mattress upon which she slept, but I never bothered to look. I needed to flee in haste. Though, I was not hindered to steal a pair of Marie's best _pointe_ shoes before I left. I should lie to my mother concerning my fame, I decided, and would send the shoes home if they needed evidence.

But I forgot to bring any food or clothing with me. All I had were the shoes, my cloak, and a few bills of paper money that I had stuffed in my undergarments.

I stole into the night with as much caution as I could muster. Being one in the morning, I had to evade the pickpockets on the street by running like the hint of a shadow. But this could only last for so long. When the rim of the sky glowed with morning I saw the poverty-stricken rural regions of the city; these were filthy, covered in straw to mask stray bodily fluid. They reminded me slightly of my home town, except I suddenly felt fortunate. What an odd feeling to have, walking quickly in the light of dawn with a cloak and some shoes, thinking how fortunate I am in comparison to tattered, reeking peasants with no more than a cloak and some shoes to themselves.

Thankfully no-one had set out on a mission to find me; I hadn't taken precautions as I should have to cover my trail. I had not even bothered to look at a map before I set out, though I knew I was to head south. But I was even more of a fool six years ago than the fatuous girl I've turned into now.

With luck the next little village found me as I walked with the sun at my left shoulder that morning. On the outskirts a kind old man directed me to the town indicated by my mother in the letter: Beaubien in the south, keep going, you'll pass Auvergne and find it in the region near Gascony. He reminded me a little of Uncle Nic (at least what I have been told, and the little I can recall). Stubborn, cynical at first, "What does a little girl want with Castille Beaubien?" and "Shouldn't you be with your father?" And later, "My eyes can't see a whit, so perhaps you might do my laundry for me." In exchange for washing his filthy clothes, he opened his doors and let me rest for a while. Even if he was a little rude and unaccommodating at first, deep down he was a provider. And what had Nicki been? My true provider.

I can still feel Nicolas is alive in my feet when I dance, and see his dark, curly hair in the mirror. I can hear his violin.

Well, in the evening, after completing more dull chore-work, I departed from the old man's house. He, as I learned, had been a poet, or somewhat one. I was promised a poem dedicated to me should he ever get enough money or fame to have his works printed. He was still struggling. I wonder now if he has enough money, or if he has been put off doing any work because he has gone completely blind, or if he is dead. He may be dead. I can only think.

I made for a southern forest, passing a large pond, stopping to swim in the August humidity. When I saw lights at night or smoke by day I knew a town was near and I kept approaching Auvergne through the kindness and favors of strangers. But the afternoon arrived when I came upon the forest that would take me to Beaubien. The sun was calm and orange, so I proceeded with little difficulty until the veil of night.

I had no torch or guide except faint moonlight through thick branches. I was forced to sleep on the ground, now equipped with a blanket given me by pitying strangers when I passed out in an alley from malnutrition. Even so, I awoke with the piercing howl of a wolf pack. Before the chills set in, I was first stricken by the memory of an old tale from Nicolas's life:

The actor, Luc, Nicki's lover, before he had decided that he was born for the ruse of the stage, had slaughtered eight wolves single-handedly in the woods of his home; that was partly what attracted Nic in the first place. Dealing with furs was the industry of L'enfent, so Georges my grandfather and Nicki had stripped the wolves and made the beautiful pelts into a most formidable cloak. Nic wanted to hear of the Wolfkiller, and Luc the Wolfkiller wanted to know of Nic's Paris. When, after much small talk, Nicolas learned the story, it was that Luc had used flint-guns of some sort, a flail, a sword, and other valiant weapons to kill the wolves. It rather de-romanticized it. So, Nic told everyone that it was with brute strength that Luc slew them. I always loved that story, even after I found out. It made Nic's lover a David, but little did we know that he had attacked Goliath with an impressive arsenal instead of wit or magic. I used to laugh at the irony.

No laughter came to me now. When I heard the wolves cry, I understood why one needed such weaponry. I sat still; their gleaming eyes advanced all the more quickly. My heart raced. If I were as brave as Luc, or David, I would show the wolves my glorious cloak made of their cousins' pelts, and scare them away. My uncles could have fought the wolves so very easily. I would not.

Would I, and were I. I was alone. I had a pair of shoes and a blanket. I realized that if I did not distract them with my vain treasure I would die a bloody and terrible death. I was stupid to be out at night alone, but not stupid enough to get myself killed.

I looked at the _pointe_ shoes slung over my shoulders in the dim midnight. These could have taken me onto a stage, I thought. Now they must save my life.

I threw the pair as hard as I could, winding the ribbons thoroughly, never breathing too loudly. It seemed some wolves picked up the distraction, and followed. Springing from the ground, I ran with the brush swishing at my feet. Never had the sound been so ugly or vociferous. Perhaps that is because the howling that followed startled my heart and made me breathe that I might have loosed the contents of my nauseated stomach.

Sprinting, I found what seemed to be a large clearing. I had gone down the correct path at a fork and landed at the edge of a small town. I had found Beaubien and escaped the wolves. It was a win.

I lingered there a little too long, I think. Far too long.


	2. Bienvenue au Cabaret

**Working Title: **Accounts of My Absurdity

**Rating**: T for language and themes

**Summary**: The history of the brunette Silly Girl, Georgette de Valois, as she attempts to sort out her mourning over Gaston's death.

**Other**: A big ol' thank you to my reviewers. Yes, Georgette may seem a little intelligent for her character, but she gets stupider once she falls into the gossiping and adventuring of fighting over Gaston. She hasn't even met him yet. I'd just like to justify her story because this is written as she is looking back at her previous experiences, and she's wiser in this time period. Don't worry, she'll be silly, I promise! Stick with me, okay?

**ALSO!** CONGRATULATIONS PHS! WE ARE NOW OFFICIALLY SOLD OUT! 6000 people… that's a big number…

Yes, Beaubien was the name of it, the sizeable town I found that night. I stumbled in to the greeting of very few lights; in fact, only the bar emitted any mode of life. So I entered, or staggered, into the tavern of Beaubien at the howling hours of midnight. Naturally, they all stared. I was a frail penniless womanling and they roughened heartless bar thugs.

There were old wrinkled men, men in their prime, and some young boys sprinkled at the tables. A rotund man stood behind the wooden bar counter. With him a well-endowed woman slid a beer to the edge of the surface. The bartender noticed me first.

"Colette, would you look at that girlie over there?" he said.

"Which one? You love all your girlies. I couldn't possibly guess if you're just telling and not showing me," the woman replied. She was reaching back for a pair of mugs to fill, and didn't see me, apparently.

"The one that's just wandered in, you little trollop."

"What's that?" she asked before whipping her head around to see me. "—You're not lying this time! What a laugh, though. What's a thing like that doing in here?"

I slowly approached Colette and the fat bartender, dodging a duo of arm-wrestlers on my way. "Excuse me, _monsieur_ _et_ _mademoiselle_…"

"No need for formality," he replied. "But you'd better hurry with whatever it is or those scoundrels will take advantage of ya!"

I hesitantly looked at the frightening men surrounding me. Danger never truly fazed me. My faint memory of it was that, goodness, I might be pushed around and lose my flower of a girlhood… But it never quite hit me as anything but exhilarating. "Ah, I… I have just arrived from a very faraway place and it appears the inn is closed, or perhaps you don't have one, and I have little money," I said quietly.

Colette seemed to enjoy this somehow, for she was laughing. Her man was only raising an eyebrow at me.

"You expect me to be able to do anything about it?" he joked.

"You are more likely to be taken home by one of these men than be offered a stay here for free," explained Colette.

"Do you mean as a servant? Because I only know how to dance," I replied. Again this was amusing to them.

"I'll take 'er home!" exclaimed a short bearded man. I think I may have looked at him with utter terror and disgust. He only smiled more. I later learned that all of this was rather sexual to him, but I did have an inkling of it as it occurred.

"That's what I'm saying," the bartender snorted. The ugly man raised his glass and drank to that. Luckily Colette took pity on me.

"She's too young for any of that. Leave her alone, won't you, Jacques?" she told the barman. He gruffly took a rag and swiped the top of the bar. "Little girl, you listen toe me because I will only say this once to you," she continued. I nodded emphatically; I knew about single chances. "I will let you have my room for this one night, but tomorrow you will be out of there, on your own. You understand?"

"Oui, _mademoiselle_," I responded. She laughed a little.

"Oh, if you knew what my job was really about you wouldn't call me that," Colette said. "Now, follow me unless you want to lose your pretty little virginity."

She turned and ducked under a partition to emerge from the counter, and ushered me past the drunken fools to a well-worn staircase. This we ascended.

"…Thank you very much for allowing me to stay in your establishment. I should pay you back with a service of mine, if you wish, for I have little of value anymore," I offered. Colette did not acknowledge that I had spoken, but instead took a candle off of the wall and used it to light the upstairs hallway. Wordlessly she knocked on the second door on the left and opened it.

"We're here. I have water in that basin if you feel you must wash," she announced. She brought the candle closer to her face. "I don't want any stains or messes, and no going through my things."

I took the candle from her, and I thanked her profusely again. "Don't mention it. Really. I was not going to end up here tonight anyway," Colette said. "I'll think about repayment, though. What name do you want to be woken up by?"

"I'm Georgette. De Laroque… De L'enfent," I said quickly.

"Which one is it?"

"Georgette de L'enfent," I lied. I never liked my father's surname.

"L'enfent, then. Hm, L'enfent… I have only heard despair from that name recently. But gossip will be for the morning. I'm Colette, just that. And I will wake you up as soon as the drunkards leave in the morning."

I smiled. "Good night, Colette."

"Yes, same to you. And keep your legs crossed in case the Terror comes in thinking you're me," she said frankly. She swayed past the door, and I closed it politely. The flame of the candle revealed the untamed room of a disorganized whore. I smelled an unfamiliar reek of human juices from a pile of linen in the corner—she'd just changed the sheets. I set the light upon the side table where a handkerchief was neatly laid out for just that purpose.

I sighed.

I waited for a comforting silence. All I heard was the grunting and yelling from the room below, and a few unwelcome lovers' cries from the room beside me. Then came a barking order from Colette for the pair to quiet themselves, for heaven's sakes, there's a young girl next door who's trying to sleep.

I snuffed the candle out. It sharply made me realize how far away from home I was to see the moonlight through the window. Even with the light it had been fierce, uninviting. This was not my bed. This was not my bed, and the straw was moist and filthy from that stranger, and I wanted to sleep. Ah, stop talking, stop drinking, I've got to sleep…

Darkness. Black, and a sweet scent like a waft of warm spring at the end of a winter. I saw the figure of a man in my mind's eye; triangle, flower, bricks, fire. It smelled sweet still. I could have inhaled that scent forever, never mind waking up!

"…Colette! Nicolette!"

Someone knocking on that door, calling my middle name. Was it meant for me? No, the barmaid, must have been. Nevertheless I jolted awake.

"She is not here," I called. I was lying on my side, facing the sun, but I heard the door creak open.

"Don't play games with me, now," the voice slip-slided.

"I am not Colette!" I protested. I pulled the covers over my head. "Go away!"

The intruder threw the blanket from my body. Frightened, I looked up to see who had been disturbing my dignity. My eyes locked with what was possibly the most handsome creature I had ever seen. He was a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen but with the loveliness a grown man could not have. His remarkable eyes fascinated me. Even with his confused expression his face was like marble chiseled from God himself. I had heard of Athenian statues; he was an incarnadine legend. Dumbfounded doesn't provide description enough for what I must have looked like.

"What do we have here?" he asked.

"Ah—I—Colette let me sleep here and she said she would not be coming back," I blurted. How stupid that must have sounded. What a wonderful impression to make on the relic.

He frowned, displeased with the answer. "Great. Well, she was supposed to—who are you anyway, her sister?"

"She has a sister?" I asked. He seemed impatient. "I do not even know really where I am, so I have no idea where she could be."

"No," he sighed. "I suppose you don't resemble her at all, really. But you had better watch out where you sleep from now on, you little thing! You can't party all night and expect that when you wake in someone else's bed you'll be safe!" He dropped the blanket and strode out the door, and made sure to slam it shut. An accidental knight.

I decided that since I would not be able to get back to sleep for the perspiration on my forehead I would get myself together and face what awaited downstairs. I had found the basin Colette mentioned, but when I went to wash my face, a thin film covered the water, with dust in it now making it filthy. What luck I had not sought to clean myself last night. I gathered my cloak, repositioned my shoes, and went down the stairs.

It occurred to me fleetingly, where in God's green Earth was I?

Down the old stairs a calmer morning greeted me. One drunkard drooled on the corner table, but that remained the sole un-pleasantry. It seemed somebody was cooking breakfast, which was odd for a tavern. But in a moment I saw Jacques emerge from a door with a glass full of—were those yolks?

"Ah, so the princess is up," he said.

"Yes, _monsieur_," I replied. "I'll leave now, but I wanted to thank Colette first…"

"She's in the back, do what you will." He set the yolks down on the center table and called, "Gaston! I got 'em!" in no definite direction.

Just before I entered the kitchen the same dashing boy ran down the steps and grabbed the glass of eggs. "Thanks, Jacques," he shouted, and then lifted the cup and began to drink it raw. Raw eggs! And that many, too! I was strangely enticed by this notion. He must have been some man to handle all those yolks. I know Etienne had tried to eat a raw egg to please my father; he vomited it back up not five minutes after the fact. There went my father's hopes of Etienne being a manly man. I suppose nothing really went the way my parents planned.

Dazed, I opened the door and saw Colette scrambling more eggs in a pan. "Excuse me," I said. She looked up.

"Oh, you're awake. I'm glad to see you weren't attacked," she said.

"No, but close to it…"

"Mon Dieu—did a lad with dark hair and a handsome face bother you with knocking?" she asked, and stopped frying the meal for a moment. I bashfully watched the edges of my dress to avoid her gaze.

"Well, he rather barged in, but saw I was not you, though I responded at first."

"Why would you do a thing like that, you silly girl!" Colette exclaimed. "Though I am glad he was not a pest…"

"You see my middle name is Nicolette, and at first when he called for you—" I began.

"Gaston always gets his eggs early in the morning and I was with Jacques, so he went looking for me," she finished aloud.

I smiled out of civility, and said, "Do not worry about this. You were kind to let me stay here. If I am allowed outside of the Castille I shall pay you a visit." I went for the door, satisfied that I knew now the name of that young man. Gaston is quite a fricative sound. It has such _staccato _in its music. I don't know why I cannot get over the sound of this name. It is nothing like an orchestra.

For a moment as I turned, she paused, went blank. Then Colette spoke. "Castille Beaubien? Are you certain you wish to go there?"

I nodded, yes, for I had to take ballet lessons from a renowned tutor who would be there with her famous opera troupe.

"I keep forgetting you are a small, lost child," she mumbled, almost kindly. "There has been a slight accident at the Castille… You see, a spell has befallen the entire place and all of the people have disappeared. Some say it is the work of the Devil, and that the Devil himself is manifested in a horrible beast who resides in the parapets. He does not allow anyone inside. And I would not go inside even if Christ took my hand."

"A beast," I repeated. Soft-sounding. "I cannot believe you."

"Suit yourself. It's no cruel jest, I tell you, and you will see now. I am not initiating you with ignorant tales," Colette said, staring me squarely in the eye. Her deep eyes pulled me in toward a truer meaning, but before I reached it, the voice of Jacques pervaded the room: "Colette! The eggs!"

I curtseyed deeply, a _plie_ of sorts. "Thank you. I shall see what was made of the Castille for myself. I do not believe in the work of the Devil, or the kindness of Christ. But your kindness is much appreciated. _Bonjour_!"

"Wait!" she called. "You have not eaten. At least take an egg." Shoveling a bit of the scrambled stuff from her pan into my hand, she rushed out the door to deliver the breakfast. I tried to walk quickly as I exited the curious tavern, but I noticed the boy Gaston was staring at the eggs in my hand with a quirk of his eyebrow.

The woods near the town seemed far less menacing in the daylight. With the right angle every shade of brown and sage sparkled magnificently. I came to a fork in the path near where I figured I had been the night before. Had I taken the other path I would have likely arrived at the castle first. Then again, I would have likely never met my wonderful bar friends, or the striking boy. Wary of wolves, I took that path.

Were my shoes nearby, perhaps? Possibly. I had not thought of looking.

My mind concentrated on the excitement of nearing a haunted castle. Would it be the Devil's castle, as Colette had said? Would it be the establishment of all evil that presided over our world, or was it a ruse? I walked.

I had gone about an hour before coming upon a stone gargoyle that rested beside a tree. This was the entrance, with rusted gates. Rusted?

How long exactly had the Castille been abandoned? I wonder if my mother knew. I questioned if perhaps she gave me directions to a location where I would certainly die and then bought herself a new coat with the last of Nicki's money.

Nevertheless I braved the gates and weeds, for I had to hope I had a purpose for going an hour out of my way. When I knocked at the gold-gilded doors, I was not surprised that no one answered. I did not bother to open it, or check if it were open, or ring the bell. Devil or no, I wanted to survive to prove my mother wrong, and that required going back to my source of nutrition. I returned to the gate and sidled out through the small entrance, but caught a glimpse of something foreign in one of the windows. I tried not to look, but the flash of white was far too intriguing. They were fangs, attached to a mass of fur and horns—

The Devil?

A diversion, surely. I calmed myself by saying out loud that someone had set up a dummy beast inside to scare children. Though it was awfully odd to me that a joke in the middle of a forest would be for children…

Of course, now I know better. It was no false Devil. It must have been the Prince. But in my girlish idiocy, I seemed to think that it would jump out of the window and into the yard.


	3. Lovely Ladies

**Working Title: **Accounts of My Absurdity

**Rating**: T for language and themes; rating may go up in later chapters

**Summary**: The history of the brunette Silly Girl, Georgette de Valois, as she attempts to sort out her mourning over Gaston's death.

**Other**: Thanks reviewers! And hang in there! Every bit of intelligence she learns disappears with the Competition for Gaston's heart. It's not like I'm writing these little incidences for no reason; we all have lucid moments in our lives that teach us. Hers are early. So if you're not going to be satisfied with Georgette's brief span of intelligence, wait till Chapter Four, please. I KNOW it sounds too smart for a Silly Girl right now. That's the point. The end.

**ALSO!** We're taking the number "Gaston" to the Freddy Awards… which means I'm going to be a featured dancer on TV! Yaaay! And hey cast, if anyone is interested in seeing pictures, e-mail me and I'll hook you up with some of 'em.

I returned, running as fast as my legs would carry me, to Beaubien. In the daylight I saw better its fountain in the square, and a library; the tavern and a blacksmith shop; the baker, butcher, and otherwise. Houses lined a few disorganized streets which radiated from the square. From there farmland stretched, and then fields.

It was actually a very amicably sunny day. However, I was terrified. None of those details mattered.

White-faced, I stumbled into the tavern. "Colette!" I screamed. The place was dreadfully desolate; that is, of course, for the variegated patterns of pelts and antlers all over the walls. How had I missed that?

Colette finally came running down from her quarters. Never had I been so elated to see anyone. My pulse still had not returned to normal, and my head ached from this prolonged fear. But all I could think was, my God, this beast is real, and he must have seen me, and what if he followed me? And what if he actually used those fangs to slaughter people!

"Oh, you will not believe what I think I saw—!" I shouted.

She smirked. "Why, if it isn't Georgette. How was the Castille? Just as I described, or worse?"

"I saw him… in the window…"

"You did," she clarified. She looked to her left for a moment, sighed. "I understand. Was he short with horns and hooves?" she laughed forcefully.

"No, _mademoiselle_, he—"

"I **know** what he looks like!" she cried.

"Then why did you ask?" I demanded in the pressing silence.

Colette closed her eyes tightly. "You cannot know. Actually, never speak of it again. And actually," she added, "I need you to repay me." Suddenly she went to the counter and stood behind it. I didn't follow, for she seemed angry.

"I would be obliged."

"Can you count?"

"Only to thirty-two, and I do not know what that amount looks like," I admitted. Usually it was only to eight, like at the ballet academy, but I had learned that four eights together were thirty-two. Another sigh.

"Can you cook?"

"I was without a mother for five years!"

"I'm not asking for an explanation. Can you or can you not prepare a meal, girl?"

"I cannot."

"Christ, you are hardly a woman. Can you at least sew?" she asked, exasperated. The corners of my mouth curled.

"Yes, indeed," I said. Years of sewing ballet slippers and acting as apprentice to my father taught me this. Colette threw up her hands.

"Finally! Perfect. I have a large favor to ask of you, then. Since Jacques is at the smith's, he will not know you are back. I want you to lie for me. Will you do this?"

I nodded.

"Good. You went to the Castille but the Madame had already departed…" This was the truth; not too tough to remember. "You are now working for my mother who is the seamstress of the town."

"—Why can't I work right here?" I interjected.

"Truly, because I haven't room, tolerance, or tasks for you now. Jacques just sold this place to some he-man hunter father of that adorable Gaston kid. He doesn't know what he's doing, really, and we're in the gutter," Colette explained. "Now, you can visit, but you can't live here, and you will probably have to waitress or cook (or in your case repair ripped trousers) if you do. This is absolutely the most I can offer." She leaned against the bar on her elbows. "I'm sorry, kid. I kind of lashed out. But… my husband does not want me to do this for anyone."

I accepted her offer, for it was generous of her to consider me worthy of endangering herself. Jacques beyond doubt would have killed Colette if he knew what she did to scrounge up enough money to live.

When I boarded with her mother the seamstress, I took Colette's old room and began to live as if I were her sister. As I found out she actually had two sisters, both younger. They were blonde like she was and very pretty. But they were stupid and lucky for it. The family went by the surname of Valois: any old name, though it was associated with past royalty. They provided me with nutrition and shelter. In return, I sewed until my fingerprints had almost worn off. I worked incessantly.

Though, this compromise had its extreme benefits. Over the seasons, I slowly came to know about the town gossip through customers. This earned me a few friends and gleaned new knowledge of Colette.

I sewed away on a jade-colored dress and chatted with the older sister one day. "You did not know?" she asked. A year older than I, this girl. "Colette can only add income to the family by selling herself."

"You mean to say her clothes?" I asked.

"No, you idiot. Her body. To men?" she pushed. The last offended me.

"I know, to men!"

"Well, anyway, Jacques does not know. He was always as ignorant as a country bumpkin. Not like us. But she does seem to be coming down with something. He ought to notice soon enough, since she's not been careful lately. Oh, I only hope she does not get pregnant by some disgusting old man!" she clucked.

I accidentally pricked myself with the needle. "She is that careless?"

"You were in her room. You smelled it. That makes you either ignorant or stupid!" I frowned, nursing my fingertip. I hadn't wanted to be ignorant like Jacques, nor stupid like the sister Gabrielle, nor careless like Colette. The state of my barmaid friend concerned me, but I was certain she would be fine, anyway.

I suddenly recalled the scene with the boy Gaston. My face surely flushed, but I could blame this on my sewing mishap. Gaston… I heard from the other sister, Angelique, that he was the most popular and aloof individual in Beaubien. He hunted. He was strong. His reputation immediately reminded me of Luc.

"Do you know if she meets with that handsome dark-haired man from the bar?" I asked meekly.

"Gaston, you mean?"

"Him!" The name from her mouth sounded horns. It dominated me. I needed someone else to say it for the right effect.

"He's sixteen. She couldn't 'meet' with him for her own sanity… I think. He is quite a catch, though. He was ugly as a boy but now that he's growing he's positively irresistible. I think Colette should get him while the going is good. I would were I she," Gabi sighed. "I'm sure you would too, non?"

The blush crept in with new fervor. "I suppose…" She laughed.

"Not that you could. You aren't even a woman yet!"

She would bite her words as my body refuted this. In the late summer of my fourteenth year, about a year after I had first arrived, my body completed the gangly changes it had begun. It had been my height first, though it was not much, and never would be. Next, I lost the innocent wisps of under-arm hair to a bolder version. Finally I became introduced to the metallic rust feeling of menstruation. I hated it at first, with all of its rags and rues. Mother Valois kept me out of service for a whole week when it came, saying it wasn't healthy to be working. She wouldn't pay me during this time. All that she did do was make me feel uncomfortable and confused.

I wanted answers. I wanted to know why this monster gave me such pain and debilitated me. I wanted to know how; and what were these breasts growing between my own two arms? I sought out my single source of information: Colette. She had been holed up in her tavern room for the same week that I was holed up in the room above the seamstress's. Apparently she had caught some sort of flu with an exotic-sounding name. Then again, so had I.

"Colette?" I called, knocking on her door. I walked in before she could protest.

"Gette, why, it is so good to see you," she weakly called. Her cheeks were shockingly pale. Perhaps it was the angle of her head upon the pillow, but she looked particularly skeletal. My Colette, so thin? I stumbled farther into the room and sat at her bedside on a rickety stool.

"I was worried about you… You're getting better now, yes?"

"Of course, much better than before. But you! I heard from someone that you were bitten by the woman-bug!" she giggled. And she giggled harder, and she began to cough, and she would not stop coughing. I held her hand through the spasm. Sweaty palms. She still wracked with pain after the cough ended.

Quietly, I asked, "You're not going to…?"

She shook her head, held up her hand. "Don't even think… about asking me that… Now, you…" She stopped mid-thought, strangely. "No, you needed me for something. Pleasure first, then business!"

I smiled a little at the old Colette. "Well—yes, I… I have just been made into a woman, as nature would have it, and I want to know—_why_," I said. She cocked her head pensively.

"I don't think there's a why. I've… heard it has something to do with bearing children or the moon. That's a lie, though. I… can't tell you much of anything anymore. But I know one thing—do not ever prostitute yourself. And do not ever run off with the first man who gets into your bloomers because he will turn out to be a good-for-nothing fat ugly bartender who will ruin your life!"

Colette began to cough and shiver again. She had to lie back fully on her bed to regain any sort of composure. "Surely… Surely you don't hate Jacques that much?"

A pause. "No, I do not hate him. I hate his inability to handle money. I hate his inability to have a child. I hate that now I die from some disease a Portuguese sailor gave me because I wanted to have a child and pretend it was Jacques's," she spat.

"I didn't—I didn't know you're pregnant!" I gasped. She shook her head.

"Not now I'm not. Not ever again. You've… You've got to promise me, Georgette. I know Gabrielle and Angelique might try to get involved in what I did because, sure enough, Father's not getting enough money. But you must never sell yourself to men. You find—_you _find _one_ man, all right? And you be safe with him."

"How might I be safe?" I asked. Finally we were arriving at the subject I wanted to know.

Colette inhaled deeply, trying to catch her short breath. "Lemon slices when you do it. Gabi will tell you how to use one—" Here she took another breath. "—It might hurt the first time—" I hung upon her far-apart words. "Ah! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried.

"Is there anything I can do?" I questioned desperately. She shivered, mouthing, "Get Jacques" with an elegance that no sick person I knew could handle.

I jumped from the stool to the door. Before letting her lie in peace, I stole one last glance at the gaunt blonde and closed the door as quietly as I knew how. Jacques would be below in the storage room. I took the stairs two at a time. Thankfully, no customers had arrived yet, as it was about four in the afternoon. This allowed me faster access to the door.

"Jacques! JACQUES!" I screeched for him. He was jovially stirring something in a pot; his early dinner, I thought.

"What's going on, girl? You make it sound as if the church's on fire," he joked. I did not change my expression.

"Colette needs you upstairs. Have you not heard her coughing?"

"She's been at that all week. Shaking, too. Don't you worry about it. Now, run on home."

I was aghast that Jacques would seem so neglectful. He cared perfectly for all of his patrons. "She dies! She has nobody there to help her—haven't you called a doctor?"

"That adulterous wife of mine doesn't deserve one! And, I don't need no doctor to know what 'flu' she has. You don't know the half of it, you ungrateful urchin!" he shouted suddenly, abandoning his stew. He approached me like a storm-cloud. "Colette's infected because she screwed around with our customers. She broke the law of marriage, and now she's paying for it. Stupid wench deserved it! She's a whore, probably the most well-known in the town… _Dieu_, I was damned not to see it!" He shrank back and headed to his pot, head down.

"She… She still shouldn't die alone…"

"She's not going to die. She can't. It's not in her cards, nor mine," he insisted. "Now, really, Gette. Go back home."

I was loath to leave him. Even as he resumed his optimistic cooking, I couldn't help but think that somewhere inside he had regretted admitting Colette's secret. I was only glad that he didn't beat her to death for this new bit of knowledge. He loved her still. I admire that. Though she cheated on him, she paid for his expenses and took care of him. The least he could do was revere her life.

I did go back to the Valois residence. I couldn't work, though. Angelique asked where I had been, but I couldn't say. I couldn't say.

The next morning I was not surprised when I heard weeping in all directions. Angelique wept silently into a handkerchief; Gabi only cried when everyone left the room. Monsieur and Madame Valois were beside themselves and closed the shop for the rest of the week. I, however, finished all of the dress orders on time and hand-delivered most of them as diligently as I could. I had to keep my mind off of it, the horrible fact.

Colette had died. In fact, she died before the first man stepped into the bar that night. In fact—and this is the first time I will admit to it—she probably died when I was leaving, alone in that room. Colette, my first true confidante in Beaubien. In the world. And now she was buried in a Christian grave too deep for me to ask her advice any longer.

The loveliest lady I had yet known went out with a whimper. I was just glad she provided me a house before she passed.


	4. Out Tonight

**Working Title: **Accounts of My Absurdity

**Rating**: T for language and themes; rating may go up in later chapters

**Summary**: The history of the brunette Silly Girl, Georgette de Valois, as she attempts to sort out her mourning over Gaston's death.

**Other**: Thanks reviewers! In this chapter, you will finally meet the other soon-to-be Sillies… Things will come together shortly. And this is only a little bit of chapter four, but I couldn't wait any longer.

**ALSO!** We just won the Freddy Award for Best Overall Production of a High School Musical! Yay! Along with Best Actress, Best Scenic Design, Best Lighting, and Best Crew. Celebration time means another chapter for all of you!

* * *

Jacques had one option when his source of sufficient income died of an occupational disease. He had to completely submit the business to its new owner and hope that he could come back as an employee. But, as Gabi announced to us all, Monsieur Gaston (the elder, not _the_ Gaston) died about three days after Colette from… a shockingly similar set of symptoms. Ah, so she can't take the boy, but his father? Fair game. After all, he controlled her husband's work place.

I was stitching up a plain azure dress at the shop when Gabi farther revealed that now she was to bartend at the place. Aside from sewing being the most boring occupation for her, Gabi felt she was better suited to a noisy atmosphere. So be it. She boarded in the upstairs room that used to harbor Colette—she was the only one who could go in there, it seemed. And, as the weeks passed, Jacques was re-employed under the _new_ new owner, Gaston.

Would it be horrible to say that Gabi got what was coming to her? No?

Jacques married her. It was funny; almost as if to compensate for the gap Colette left within us all. But now that Gabi had already married to bar life, it only seemed fit. She was certainly following the footsteps of her sister. Although, she wasn't allowed to say no to Jacques. Monsieur and Madame Valois would not permit otherwise, for Jacques held a bit of land that they wanted for themselves. Everyone was very, very greedy, I noticed.

So, after hearing the hum about Chez Gaston and its first night of new management, I ventured out to see the bar for myself. I told Madame Valois that I would be going to wish Gabi well and to pick up a bottle of wine, perhaps. She consented; she didn't see that I went in one of Gabi's old dresses.

Hurriedly, I walked through the chilled air to get to the bar. Nothing had changed on the outside for the nearly two years that I had frequented it, save for the snow, now. But when I entered, a large fur-covered chair sat in front of a blazing fire. That was new. Jacques also dealt with a few more barrels of foreign wine. And of course, Colette's absence promoted a rowdier, less congenial crowd.

Gabrielle waved to me from a table at which she sat with another girl. This girl boasted rust-red hair, and was maybe at an age equal to my own. She was frighteningly pretty, with big grey eyes and perfect protruding cheekbones.

"_Bonsoir_, Georgette," Gabi said. I smiled cordially and sat across from her.

"_Bonsoir_, Gabi. And…?" I prompted.

The redhead stated, "Brigitte. Taquine."

"Quite a name, isn't it? A _Tease_, which she certainly is," Gabi clucked away. "She is my acquaintance from these past few nights."

"And how old are you?" I queried.

"Fourteen. Only just," Brigitte replied. I was on the cusp of sixteen then.

"How interesting. I happen to have sixteen years myself," I commented. Oh, how utterly superior I was.

"I hope age can't prevent us from being the absolute best of friends! Gabrielle told me how wonderful you are…" She smiled. For the first time I ably detected that someone, namely she, was lying. But I still returned her glow.

"Of course we can be friends," I replied. Truly, I had no idea what I was getting into.

"Shall I leave you two to chat?" Gabrielle asked. Because she was already getting up to leave, I could not be rude. Gabi left me with this false girl while she tried to seduce other men. The bitch, the first-rate whore. But I would be kind to her pretentious-looking friend.

"That would be splendid, thank you," I said. I smiled despite the nagging notion that I should choke down friendly emotion.

A matter of a minute or so passed wherein Brigitte and I only conversed with our nervous eyes. And then she asked, "So, ah… Where do you live? I haven't seen you around before."

"I'm a seamstress at Monsieur Valois's shop." She raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, I see. Are you a niece? I don't suppose you look at all a daughter, like Gabi," Brigitte commented. How ever-so observant. It takes only a child's eyes to note the difference between light and dark, I reminded myself. Brigitte is but a child.

"I know, I'm so dark I can hardly stand it. Yes, I'm his niece," I lied. I watched her expression shift uncomfortably.

"You aren't dark of _skin_; maybe you shouldn't call yourself such a thing," she suggested. I wondered if she understood that back home we used to call a dark-haired person dark no matter the color of their skin. Light and dark; what a fool. I had experienced such catty remarks at my ballet school. This was a nicer way for her to tell me that she thought I gave myself too much credit, and it had nothing to do with what color my hair really was. Well, I could play that game if she wanted. First I would reel her in. Security would certainly allow for loss later.

"Oh, I suppose you don't call it that here. You must forgive me; you're right," I said shyly, feigning embarrassment. "I didn't know how, really, to say that I don't look as fair as my cousins. You see my mother is insufferably black-haired… you would have thought I would get my father's golden hair since my cousins did!" I laughed, or forced it. "I feel so new here even though I've lived here for two years already."

The latter of what I'd said was true. My mother had a head full of dark hair, like Uncle Nicki's and mine. She said it was from a touch of Italian in our blood. And my father had a cold, northern blonde in his complexion that reflected in Luc, I am told. Really, the only lie in this was that I did not have the Valois family intermingled with my family at all. I only didn't want to tell my whole life's tangled story to this condescending stranger. Yes, let me be Gabi's cousin, and then it won't seem odd that I'm apprenticing in place of a kind dead prostitute.

Brigitte began with a polite chuckle: "So, I guess you're an apprentice to your uncle or something?"

"Absolutely," I said. "What with money being tight at home, Mother sent me to help make a living… But what about you?" I asked. Her face lit up as it had when she revealed her own name.

"Oh, my family does banking, mainly. That doesn't mean money comes easy, though. Actually Father's been thinking about joining some revolt against the King so we can have more rights. Something like that. Daddy's always been thrifty, so I'm sure he'll find a way," she explained enthusiastically.

"Do you come here often…? I mean, is it okay that someone as young as you is allowed in here?"

"You're only sixteen. I see no big deal."

"Right; so why would you come here?" I pressed. Every word with her was a battle already.

"Truly?" she started, her lips at the edge of a pout. "I get lonely. The other girls like to sew or needlepoint at each other's houses, but… they also like to leave me out of it. I don't know why. They let my siblings come over… Maybe it's because they're younger and less sophisticated than tavern-girls."

I was hit with a tiny pang of pity. Tiny, mind you. "That's horrible. Had I known I would have invited you to sew with me." It was tremendously lonely when Gabi and Angelique were running errands and I kept shop alone, or worse, with their parents. "I should have liked your company!"

"Well, I don't much like sewing anyway."

"It's something to do," I said. She twisted her face in thought.

"Yeah, but I'd rather… You know what I wish I could do?" she whispered excitedly. "I've always wanted to learn ballet or opera. I love to dance. I only wish I knew correctly… I saw the Opera once and…"

I was shocked. Not only had she mingled opera with dance, which are generally two separate entities, but she wanted to steal my dream job. Either she was misled earlier in life or we were destined to interact somehow. Dared I bring it up?

"You know, I learned a little ballet from my mother!" I humored her. "I would love to teach you what I know…"

"Really? That would be great!" she exclaimed. She hardly gave her answer a second to think on. It made me wonder if I had a skill for persuasion.

"Yes, yes! We have much more in common than I thought. I love this dancing also."

"—Do you know who you should meet? Geneviève de la Rue is one of my only acquaintances—she loves dance, too—maybe the three of us could meet one day and share our talents! It would be a change from Gene's bar-dancing," Brigitte chattered. I nodded.

"That sounds divine. Pray, when can I meet her?" I asked. I had been desperately searching for a way out of talking to Brigitte all night, after all.

"Generally, she…"

I couldn't listen. Somebody in the corner had cracked open the case to a violin and ran the bow across the strings, fiddle-style. It was so very country, so crude. I was entranced. I had not heard the sound of a violin for years. And to accompany it, it seems a few men surrounded the gay violinist; and a girl emerged from the merry lot who stepped up on a table and swung her skirt around to the song.

"Geneviève! My word!" Brigitte suddenly yelled. The blonde on the table quit clicking her heels and looked at Brigitte. She smiled widely. Blue eyes, probably of German origin, but very cute. An instant crowd-pleaser for her foreign look.

"_Bonsoir_, Brigitte! Come join me! I told them to play Congo River for you!" she called. Brigitte stood and approached the din.

"_Mon D—_Gene! I don't think they like it when you stomp around the good plates like that—"

"SHE FIRES HER GUNS, CAN'T YOU HEAR THE RACKER!" a man sang over the other voices. I laughed. I recalled this song about a rowdy crew on their African river. It reminded me of adventure, cutthroat and inspiring.

The blonde girl conceded and grudgingly stepped down from her makeshift pedestal. "Aw, and I loved that song," she lamented. A man patted her shoulder consolingly; oddly enough he was quite a bit older than she. Her father, perhaps? No, they looked nothing alike.

"Gene, just come here, okay?" Brigitte goaded. She held out her hand, which Geneviève took girlishly as Brigitte led her over to me. "This is Georgette, who sews, like, half of the stuff at Monsieur Valois's shop!"

I smiled sheepishly despite the bombastic chorus of "Congo River." "_Bonsoir. Enchanté, mademoiselle de la Rue_," I said with a slight curtsy.

"Well-met, indeed, _mademoiselle de Valois_!" she replied. "Come on. You know this song? You must! Let's dance before it's over!"

I nearly followed the ecstatic girl's lead. Anything to rid myself of the droning fourteen-year-old. At least Geneviève seemed my age. We leapt into the circle of men, though Brigitte kept calling after us, "I don't want to dance tonight, Gene!"

"Have some fun for once!" Gene urged. The fiddle raged on, and I did a modest combination with this new friend. Once the song ended, which was very shortly after we'd begun, we weaved our way out to where Brigitte watched lazily.

"Well," she prompted.

"Well what? That was damned fun!" Geneviève exclaimed with a laugh.

"This coming from the lodger of a girl's home above the church," Brigitte joked. I sat down at the table across from the arguing pair.

"Oh, you live above the church?" I asked. Geneviève nodded.

"That doesn't mean I like God. He's like an annoying big brother sometimes, with all those restrictions on dancing and the Devil and whatnot. I'm lucky the Sisters let me out!" she said. "But it's better than living anywhere else. Things are free, and they have this pity for me…"

Brigitte sighed with her eyes big and wide. "Yes… What's the time? Mother needs me to be at home soon," she surely lied.

"Oo! Let me come with you," Geneviève ordered. She smiled, and Brigitte could not help but accept the offer, for no reason other than that Gene had nowhere else to go but back to the church.

"Certainly… But how rude of me! Georgette, would you like to join us?" Brigitte asked me. Honestly, I had no plans; but I had said to the Madame Valois that I would pick up some wine. Yes, that would be my excuse.

"Ah, not tonight, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm supposed to help Jacques in the back and then escort Angelique back home."

"That's too bad. Let's meet up again sometime," suggested Gene.

I returned her exuberant grin. "That we certainly shall! I am here every night."

"Great. Good-night, Georgette!" Brigitte said hastily. She ran off with Geneviève in tow. Meanwhile, I crept upstairs to where I knew Gabi was changing into her work-clothes. If anyone knew the gossip of the town it was Gabrielle Valois. And so, meaning to expand my knowledge of the two girls, I consulted her.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, I proposed, "Brigitte Taquine."

"What about her?" Gabi replied slyly.

I glared. "What's her deal? I mean, what chipped her shoulder that she seemed a vexing shrew to me?"

Gabi sighed, applying a bit of perfume to her wrists. "If you must know, she needs a good beating for her effrontery. But she's just dealing with her father's leaving. She knows he's not coming back, and her mother's going to marry her off or worse when she realizes."

"She seems…" I paused. "She wishes to befriend me, Gabi, but I don't know if I should. She was a perfect imbecile concerning manners, but if you say it's because she's been upset, I believe it. Maybe I could help her?" Yes, perhaps she could be my project. I had never helped anyone like that, much less a person close to my age.

Gabi lifted her eyebrows, then set them normal, then opened her round mouth to speak. "I… Well, _Brigitte_? I suppose… nobody else is willing to change her. She's got that de la Rue girl to play with, but she only really clings to me." She pulled on her garter and stood up fully. "How do I look, decent?" she posed. I nodded. "Ugh. All right. I gotta go, so don't be stupid."

As she headed for the door, I stood firmly in front of her. "But wait! So, I ought make a friend of her?"

"Be my guest if it pleases you. It'll probably get her off me," Gabi replied curtly.

"—And Geneviève, too, I suppose?"

"Yes, her too—would you get out of the way?" She hitched forward and tried to pass me.

"—And I need a bottle of wine for your _maman_," I added at last.

"Check the drawer, fool. You know I always keep some in the vanity." With that, she turned and abandoned me. I'm sure she thought nothing of the encounter.

I hesitantly searched her dresser and found just enough _vin_ to head home. I stayed awake a little longer than I should have that night. But I was plotting how I would assertively gain Brigitte.


End file.
